“Pressin’ work. Ha—ha! Hit the right word, for once. Very pressin’ work, b’ Jove! In defiance of my orders, I caught Alfred and Prudence kissin’ each other—under my very nose. Pressin’ work, indeed. They skedaddled. Hunted cover. Spoiled my sport, I tell you. I couldn’t get out a clean line. Are they in now?” “I think so, Sir Geoffrey.” “Send for ’em—at once. Bring ’em here. Don’t stare at me, boy! I’m not suffering from suppressed gout, as you think. I’ll stop these gallivantings.” “You have often said that you liked our men and maids to have a whiff of fresh air between tea and dinner.” Fishpingle had left the room. The Squire stamped again. “I did. And this is what comes of thinking for others.” “Father——?” “What is it?” “Go easy with them! They love each other dearly.” “Good God! They’re first-cousins, boy. Not a word! Stay here! You shall see me deal with ’em.” “But——” “Not a word,” roared the Squire. Lionel lit a cigarette, frowning, conscious that he was being treated as a child, resenting it, anxious to plead for the lovers, anticipating “ructions,” and condemned to be present, a silenced witness. Fishpingle came back, followed by Prudence and Alfred, looking very sheepish and red. Alfred was in livery. Prudence had not changed a very dainty little frock. “Stand there!” commanded the autocrat. The blushing pair stood still in front of the table, facing the Squire, who sat erect in his chair, assuming a judicial impassivity, as became a Justice of the Peace and a Chairman of the Board of Guardians. He addressed Fishpingle, coldly: “Now, Ben, did I, or did I not, give you a message some two months ago to be delivered by you to Prudence?” “You did, Sir Geoffrey.” “Kindly repeat it.” “You instructed me to tell Prudence to find another young man.” Lionel tried to restrain himself, and failed lamentably. “Oh, I say!” The Squire preserved his magisterial tone and deportment. “You say nothing, Lionel. This is my affair. Now, Ben, I’ll lay ten to three you never delivered my message.” “That he did,” whimpered Prudence. “In this very room, too.” “Um! I beg your pardon, Ben. Don’t sniff, Prudence! And answer my questions truthfully. If that message was delivered, how dare you kiss Alfred in my shrubberies?” Prudence pulled herself together, meeting the Squire’s inflamed glance. “Me and Alfred’ll be man an’ wife, come Michaelmas.” “In—deed? Cut and dried, is it?” He apostrophised Alfred, who may have misinterpreted a derisive but calm inflection. Alfred brightened, his voice was eager and propitiating. “If so be, Sir Geoffrey, as you meant what you wrote in the newspapers. Give me mort o’ comfort. ’Twas in the _Times_. Mr. Fishpingle’ll have it. He keeps everything you write, he do.” The Squire stared at his footman. Lionel said quietly: “What did Sir Geoffrey write, Alfred?” Alfred assumed a pose acquired in the National schools, head erect, hands at side, feet close together.